The silence after his words didn't feel like silence at all.
It felt loud — full of all the things they hadn't said. Full of breath held too long, and truths just beginning to surface.
Zayaan stepped closer.
He wasn't smiling. Not even trying. But there was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before — not fear. Not anymore.
Focus.
"Come with me," he said, voice low.
Arwa didn't ask where. She just followed.
Down the hall. Past the common room. Past the flickering stairwell light that had been 'scheduled for maintenance' since day one.
They walked like shadows, quick and silent, until he stopped in front of the door at the far end of the east wing — one she had never seen open. No number on it. No nameplate. Just a keycard scanner and a thin line of light bleeding out from underneath.
Zayaan pulled something from his sleeve — not a keycard, but a broken piece of one, half melted. Modified.
He tapped it once.
A click. A hiss. The door opened.
Inside was colder than the hall. Fluorescent light buzzed softly above. Rows of old monitors lined one side of the wall — most were off. Some flickered, showing static. A few, terrifyingly, were frozen on grainy footage of familiar hallways.
Their hallways.
"Where are we?" Arwa whispered.
Zayaan didn't look at her. He was already moving — toward the back shelf stacked with old drives and worn-out labels.
"This is where they keep the footage they think no one will find. Not the real security room. That one's for show. This..." he paused, pulling down a hard drive with a red sticker across it, "...this is the version they erased. Over and over."
He turned.
"Until they couldn't anymore."
Arwa moved closer. "Why show me now?"
He looked at her like it wasn't even a question. Like now was the only time it could ever make sense.
"Because I'm not the only one remembering anymore," he said.
And just like that — her name flickered on one of the monitors.
Camera feed. Timestamped two nights ago. Room 311. Her.
Sitting upright. Eyes open.
But the footage kept looping — rewinding after ten seconds. Again. And again.
Only her room.
Only her.
She stared.
"I don't remember this."
Zayaan's voice was quiet. "You weren't supposed to."
The air shifted.
Something clicked deeper than just memory — like something inside her brain had been half-asleep, but now? Now it was clawing its way forward.
"Play it again," she said.
Zayaan didn't move. "It'll keep doing the same thing."
"Still," she said. "Play it again."
And he did.
Again.
And again.
Until finally, right before the loop reset, Arwa's eyes on the screen flicked upward. Toward the camera.
And smiled.